


Those We Love

by LostWithoutMyBlogger



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Established John Watson/Mary Morstan, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hopefully Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, OT3, On Haitus, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Post Reichenbach, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vaginal Sex, post Reichenbach reunion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostWithoutMyBlogger/pseuds/LostWithoutMyBlogger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's return to London is only the first in a series of events that will forever change his life as well as the lives of John and Mary.  When John and Sherlock finally consummate their relationship, they fear that Mary will view it as an act of betrayal.  She, however, sees things quite differently.</p><p>This work is currently on hiatus.  I plan to continue, but I'm working through some Mary issues right now.  Have to reconcile her actions in HLV with where I was planning to go with this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scotch, Crime Scenes, and ASBOs

**Author's Note:**

> This idea popped into my head the other day after watching an interview with Amanda Abbington about how much she loved working with both Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch on series three. It made me wonder if Mary would have been so enthusiastic.
> 
> I currently do not have a beta, and this piece has not been Brit-picked. If you are interested in helping this story out with either, please enquire within. :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Will ye be needin’ anything else, lass?”

 

She glanced at the bottle of amber liquid the publican set on the well-worn wood of the bar, clicking her nails against the trio of empty glasses stacked next to it before she turned her gaze back to the two men who sat in the booth in the farthest corner of The Drunken Labrador, each looking for all the world like their best friend had died in spite of the fact that they sat next one other.

 

She gestured absently at the bottle.  “May need another before the night is over.”

 

The publican’s eyes widened.  “O’ the 21?”

 

“Can you accommodate me?” she asked, opening the bottle and pouring a healthy measure of scotch into one of the glasses.

 

The old man snorted derisively.  “Ahh, lass.  Ye cut me to the quick.  Ye know yer Jamie better than that, me thinks.”  Not even trying to hide his interest, the he leaned a bit further across the bar to get a better view of the men.  “So ... that’s Himself, then?  Returned from the dead.  If that’s not a turn up …” Jamie harrumphed in consideration before turning his attention back to the dirty glasses he had been cleaning.  “Bit more of o’ a posh air ‘bout him than I expected from a private detective.“

 

“ _Consulting_ detective,” she corrected absently and took a sip of the scotch.

 

Jamie waved her off with a knowing grin and turned his attention to the man with the lighter hair.  “ _Your_ lad o ‘the other hand.  Stable sort, he seems.  Reliable.”

 

“I rather think they’re _both_ my lads now, Jamie,” she said.

 

“Curious pair.”

 

“They are.”

 

“Worth the cost o’ two bottles o’ the 21?”

 

Mary Morstan chuckled at the scepticism in his voice.  Downing the rest of her scotch in one swig, she pressed an affectionate kiss to the tip of the old man’s nose before grabbing the bottle and the remaining glasses.  “A thousand times over, love,” she called over her shoulder.  “A thousand times over.”

 

**_OoOoOo_ **

 

The two weeks immediately following Sherlock’s return to London had been tension-filled and strained as the consulting detective and his blogger learned to re-establish their relationship after years of separation and aching sentiment.  Mary’s presence in John’s life was an added complication to the closeness that had existed before, but she had quickly come to genuinely like Sherlock Holmes.  Fourteen months of listening to John’s stories about his dead friend had left her more than prepared for the younger man’s mood swings, insults, and intensity.  Additional prodding from Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and even Greg Lestrade ensured that the pair spent more and more time together, but what it ultimately took was the buzz of a text message summoning John to his first crime scene in two years.

 

Mary and John had been cuddling in bed, breathless in the afterglow of a particularly vigorous shag when the phone shuddered across the surface of the table next to the bed.  John – to his credit – tarried in indecision long enough so as to receive a second, impatient text from the detective.

 

**_Inconvenient though it may be, I need you! – SH_ **

****

John’s excitement had been tangible, his shaking had nothing to do with the naked woman he held in his arms, but he was unsure of the protocol – for lack of a better word – in this situation.  So Mary educated him by, quite literally, pushing her lover from their bed with her feet, his “Oi!  Bit more warning next time.  The floor’s bloody freezing, you know!” making her laugh aloud.

 

“Go you romantic, git!” she had giggled as John scrambled into his clothes.  “Sherlock Holmes awaits!” 

 

He had kissed her smile through one of his own, grabbed his coat, and was down the stairs.  “Don’t wait up, love,” echoed in the darkened hallway after him.  John came home 27 hours later:  exhausted yet exhilarated and renewed.

 

When Mary joined them at their third crime scene, she had received her first real glimpse into that world inhabited solely by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.  Kept behind the blue tape though she was, Mary could clearly see the ease with which they worked together.  She couldn’t hear either man’s questions or responses, but it was likely that those closer to the pair – Lestrade, Anderson, and others of the Met – didn’t either.  John and Sherlock worked instinctively.  Words were superfluous.

 

It was seamless. 

 

It was exhilarating. 

 

It was intimate.

 

Then John and Sherlock – standing together so closely that she couldn’t tell where John’s black leather coat ended and the great Belstaff began – smiled at one another as the taller man finished rattling off his deductions about the scene for the Yarders. 

 

It was blinding.

 

Mary’s heart skipped once before resuming in her chest with a beat noticeably faster than before as she watched John grip Sherlock’s shoulder with pride.  She had known, of course.  She would have been foolish not to have done. John’s stories of his friend had been told with such devotion, affection, and passion that it would have taken an idiot not to recognize the truth of the situation.

 

“You loved him,” Mary had said of Sherlock one night as she and John lingered over dessert at an Italian restaurant that wasn’t Angelo’s.  He had never taken her to Angelo’s, and she was fine with that.  “Were _in_ love with him.”

 

John jumped slightly at her soft words.  “It wasn’t like that,” he said after several moments with a melancholy smile and tired eyes.  He finished his tea and called for the bill, effectively putting an end to any further observations about his _tendre_ for a long-dead friend.

 

 _Oh, John, you idiot,_ Mary had thought sadly as he folded 40 quid under the ticket and helped her into her coat.  _If not that, then_ what _?_

She had made love to _him_ that night.  Each gentle touch, each whispered word of affection designed to soothe but not erase John’s pain.  Later, Mary tried not to let her heart break when his hot tears slid to her naked breast as he slept.

 

“Sherlock’s always been something of a force of nature,” Lestrade said by way of greeting, lifting the blue tape that stretched between the flashing lights of two panda cars and gesturing Mary to the other side.  “Together they’re unstoppable.”

 

“They are at that,” Mary agreed.  She had needed to clear her throat of memories and emotion before responding.

 

“It’s different than before, though.”  Like hers, Lestrade’s gaze was focused on the pair standing next to the corpse on the far side of the rugby pitch.

 

“How so?” 

 

“I … well, they hardly have to say anything to one another anymore.”  Greg ran a hand through his already dishevelled grey hair.  “They anticipate.  It’s like they’re speaking their own language and none of the rest of us even know where to find the primer.”

 

He saw it, too, then.

 

“It’s beautiful,” Mary said.

 

“It’s eerie, is what it is.  Effective, but bloody well unsettling.  Oi!  You!  Anderson, leave off.  Let Holmes at the body, and you go collect …” Mary watched with a smile as the DI rushed off to keep the peace at his crime scene.

 

The duo had continued to work regularly enough for The Yard that Mary suggested to Lestrade late one night at a triple homicide that a consulting fee might finally be in order.  Sherlock may be driven by the thrill of the chase, but there were still bills to pay.  To top it off, rising from the dead was apparently an excellent – although completely unintended – marketing scheme; Sherlock and John were ever more in demand from private, _paying_ clients.

 

As business at 221B boomed, John took fewer locum shifts at the surgery, instead keeping his medical skills honed with twice monthly rotations at University College’s A&E.  Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock texted Mary about their goings on as often as John did, and though it was a busy time at work for Mary as well, she popped by crime scenes when she could.  On the whole, however, she left the pair to the Work.

 

Mary’s worry about John and Sherlock’s safety was tempered somewhat by the knowledge that each man was more than capable at defending and protecting the other, and if she received the occasional call from Lestrade that a quick stop at A&E was in order, she was there waiting, foot tapping with annoyance at their carelessness, when they were done.

 

John still made it home most nights/mornings and called or texted her on those rare times when he couldn’t.  He and Mary had date nights that not even Sherlock dared interrupt.  More often than not, however, dinnertime found the three of them huddled over Thai, Indian, or Chinese take-away at 221B or the flat in Chelsea reviewing evidence.  Mary’s baleful stare was surprisingly effective at coaxing dumplings, _naan_ , or an egg roll past Sherlock’s lips with some regularity.  

 

Keys had been exchanged for convenience sake, but Sherlock had quickly learned that coming unannounced into their flat late at night and barging into John and Mary’s bedroom without knocking was more than a bit not good.  

 

It was anyone’s guess as to whether it was Mary’s threats to take a razor blade to the Belstaff before tossing it in the Thames or the fact that said threats were delivered as she chased Sherlock out of the flat and into the street – with only her anger to clothe her – that ultimately cowed the detective.  Bad as it was, however, Sherlock’s suddenly tenuous position in Mary’s good graces nearly took a fatal hit courtesy of the ill-timed patrol of a passing bobby who, given Mary’s state of undress and the utter fury she was directing at Sherlock, was ready to have her sectioned.

 

It took John dropping Lestrade’s name to prevent her immediate arrest as well as a discreet call from Mycroft to eventually dismiss the ASBO, but Mary grudgingly forgave Sherlock – _after all, it’s not like he_ knew _we were shagging, John_ – and Sherlock never again failed to announce his presence in their home without a decorous knock at the bedroom door and a polite inquiry of “Mary, may I enter?”

 

John said little once the incident was over, choosing to instead soothe both Mary and Sherlock with cups of whiskey-fortified tea and polite conversation.  However, once Sherlock was sacked out on the lilo in the study, and Mary was curled up in their bed reading, John excused himself for a walk though it was late.  “Just a quick stroll to clear my head, love,” he told her with a kiss to her temple, and he left. 

 

Through the open window, Mary heard his peals of laughter all the way to the end of the block. 

 

The git.

 

Though Mary’s understanding of Sherlock before he fell came solely from the stories that John and the others had shared with her, Mrs. Hudson was quick to point out how much Sherlock’s years away had changed him.  Oh, he was still an atomic bomb of rude, impossibly brilliant frenetic energy that could go off at any moment, but those moments were fewer and farther between than they had been. Sherlock was more patient, she had said.  More considerate.  Especially of John.

 

For her own part, Mary had never seen John so alive.  It was as though Sherlock’s presence had reanimated her lover in a way that Mary hadn’t been aware was even needed.  Sherlock may have been resurrected, but it was John Watson who had been reborn.  Everything was brighter, his gaze sharper, his attention keener, his lovemaking both more tender and more passionate. 

 

Life was, on the whole, good.

 

And Mary fell in love … again.

 

Which made it twice as hard when everything went to Hell.

 

**_OoOoOo_ **

 

The harmony had shattered four days ago.  Though he had sent off a quick text at half eleven to let Mary know he was alive, John nevertheless returned home so late that the eastern horizon of the isle was stained pink.  He had ignored all of Mary’s queries then and since, and rarely left the small study, not even to sleep.  According to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock had grown increasingly taciturn and sullen, growling at everyone and everything, eventually slamming the door in the landlady’s face and locking it with a pointed “click.”  Three days ago, Mary had watched with horrified amazement as Lestrade had been forced to throw the pair off the crime scene of a suspicious drowning.  “Won’t talk to each other!  Won’t even bloody well _look_ at each other.  Get out of here before you bollocks things up completely!”

 

Mary had seen this coming for weeks now.  She wasn’t a dullard, after all.  Though she would never come close to the keenness of mind that Sherlock possessed, Mary was quite intelligent and exceedingly perceptive in her own right.  Sherlock’s words – more or less – not hers, but really, there was only so much tension a person could take.  John and Sherlock had apparently reached their limits and the proverbial dam had broken.  Now they were all struggling to keep their heads above the water. 

 

She had let the quiet and the strain go on between the two as long as she could, hopeful that they would work things out themselves, but after three days of John sleeping on the lilo, and Sherlock literally ripping the wallpaper from the walls of 221B because John had taken the Browning and left Sherlock nothing to shoot with, it became clear that they would not … or perhaps _could_ not do so on their own.  Hence the reason why the three of them were now squirreled away in the quietest corner of The Drunken Labrador. 

 

Far from Baker Street and the Yard as well as University College and their flat, The Lab was neutral territory.  Well, as far as John and Sherlock were concerned, it was.  It wasn’t Switzerland by any means, but it would suffice.

 

The silence at the table was profound in spite of the fact that two-thirds of the Glenfiddich was gone.  The stiffness in both John and Sherlock’s postures had lessened somewhat – at least they no longer looked like they had a maypole shoved up their arses – but for all that they spoke, she might as well have been sitting alone. 

 

Mary, herself, nursed the pint that Jamie had delivered 15 minutes ago.  He had set a plate of nibbles – still untouched – on the narrow table top and pulled the thick curtains of the booth closed behind him, ensuring the trio a certain degree of privacy.  The Drunken Labrador was a just a small, neighbourhood pub, but it wouldn’t be long before the regular, week-night crowd began to shuffle in, desperate for a pint to shake off the workday. 

 

Mary leaned back in her chair, and studied the two men across from her.  Frustration, shame, anger, and dread radiated out in varying degrees of intensity depending on the man, but it was their guilt, so palpable it nearly choked her, that assaulted her heart.  It weighed on each of them like the thick snows of an avalanche she had witnessed in the Alps years ago: heavy, cold, suffocating … deadly.

 

Right.  Idiots, both of them.  Enough of this shite.

 

Mary took a fortifying swig from the pint.  In for a pence, then …

 

“You two sure know how to bugger things up.  If you get this stroppy after finally having the bollocks to shag the man that you’ve loved for over three years, you bloody well didn’t do it right!”

 


	2. The Interloper's Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary offers a solution for their mutual problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit of a struggle to complete. It went through many variations, and I'm still not certain that it works the way that I really want it to work. Nonetheless, I hope that you enjoy it. My thanks to all those who what given me kudos, bookmarked this story, or left comments on the previous chapter.
> 
> Again, this piece has not been through a beta or a Brit-picker. If you are interested in either of those roles, you know where to find me. :)

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_“You two sure know how to bugger things up.  If you get this stroppy after finally having the bollocks to shag the man you’ve loved for over three years, you bloody well didn’t do it right!”_

 

_**OoOoOo** _

Mary bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning at John and Sherlock’s gasps of surprise.  Blue and grey eyes both widened.  John tugged nervously at the sleeve of his blue jumper, and Sherlock cleared his throat and adjusted the scarf at his neck; for the first time in four days, however, they each met her gaze directly.

 

“Thank you for not denying it,” Mary said after a moment.  “I appreciate that you have that much respect for me and for each other.”

 

John and Sherlock looked at one another and began stumbling over the other’s words.

 

“Mary, love, I’m so sorry, I didn’t – “

 

“Our actions have been – “

 

“Inexcusable.  Absolutely inexcusable!”

 

“We did not intend to –“

 

“Deliberately hurt you, love.”

 

“It’s just as well that you’ve learned to finish each other’s statements, gentlemen.  An actual word of apology from Sherlock is like to be one of the signs of the apocalypse,” Mary said softly, but the steel behind her words caused John’s mouth to snap shut like a trap.  “Do you really think we’d be here now if I felt this was deliberate?”

 

“Mary, it is understandable that …” John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and shook his head in warning.

 

“Sherlock. Don’t. Trust me,” he said.

 

Mary arched an eyebrow at his words, and John fell silent again.  She turned her attention directly on the consulting detective.  “You’re not the only one who can channel the power of deductive reasoning, Sherlock.  Though in this case, even a mouse can follow a trail of breadcrumbs.” 

 

It was impossible for her to keep her mocking tone at bay any longer.  She had kept close rein on her temper these last days knowing that it wouldn’t do any of them the least bit of good, but it was becoming increasingly difficult not to reach across the table and slap both of them for their idiocy.

 

Their table sat in a corner of the pub that more like a smaller version of the breakfast nook at her flat than a pub booth.  Courtesy of the thick curtains, it was the largest space with a modicum of privacy available at The Drunken Labrador, and Jamie had been more than happy to provide Mary with both the room and the time she needed to work through the current mess. 

 

Mary rose from her chair, skirted the table, and stood behind the two men, leaning in close with her forearms draped over the backs of their chairs, looming over them though, when fully upright, she barely reached Sherlock’s chin. 

 

“Shall I explicate my deductions?” she whispered in their ears.  John and Sherlock looked at one another and nodded slowly. 

 

Mary leaned to her left, her tone very direct and clinical, much like the man she addressed.  “You were a bit hard to deduce at first, _Mister_ Holmes.  You keep everything hidden all of the time.  Keep at a distance so many people who care about you, but even _you_ have your tells.”  Mary was tempted to trace the edge of his coat collar, but flexed her fingers and dropped her hand to her side instead.  He didn’t much care for physical contact initiated by others, and she always tried to respect Sherlock’s boundaries. 

 

“Shame that I popped by the crime scene that next morning and was able to see them,” she continued.  “You were desperate for me not to see your tells, though, weren’t you.   Why?  Why desperate?  You have claimed a hundred times over that it’s not in your nature to be polite; however, not once in all these months have you failed to be anything _but_ polite, sometimes even mannerly, to me – at least in your own way.  Yet you couldn’t meet my eyes.  Kept your distance.  Couldn’t even spare me a ‘Good afternoon, Mary.’  _Very_ telling, that.”

 

Sherlock kept his gaze set firmly on The Drunken Labrador’s coat of arms hanging from the wall opposite, but he swallowed tightly when she moved in front of him and skimmed the edge of his glove, fingers ghosting against the narrow ribbon of flesh that peeked out between the leather and the cuff of his coat.  “Slight bruising around the wrists, nothing lasting – but the work of a day or two to disappear – yet long enough to imprint the memory.”

 

Sherlock squirmed, but only just.

 

“Then there was the matter of your gait.  Stiff.  Sore.  Almost pained.  I noted it particularly when you climbed into the cab after Greg threw you two off the scene.  Not to be overly vulgar, but it was as if you would have done anything to avoid sitting down.”

 

“I may have simply slipped on the ice outside Baker Street,” Sherlock dared.

 

Her tilted head and raised eyebrow said, ‘ _Really?!  That’s the story you’re running with?_ ’  

 

For a moment, Sherlock looked as though he was trying to enjoy this interplay, but the effect was ruined by the shadows of – could it be?! – _conscience_ that lingered on his features.

 

“Breadcrumbs, Sherlock,” Mary whispered.

 

Hooking a finger into the loop of Sherlock’s scarf, she tugged gently, loosening it until the flesh beneath was exposed.  Mary slid the fine wool from around his throat, letting it pool into his lap before she pushed back each edge of the open collar of his midnight blue shirt, still never touching.  The evidence before her stood out in stark contrast against the pale skin of his long neck.  “Love bites.  Three of average size; two additional … slightly larger.  I’d wager there are at least four more scattered about here and there.”  She gestured absently at the rest of his torso.

 

“Six,” Sherlock confirmed.

 

She nodded her appreciation for his candour and turned her attention to John.  “Now the corroborating evidence.”

 

Mary pressed her small hand gently to the side of John’s neck and worried his earlobe between her thumb and forefinger.  Though she loved him dearly, a not so little part of her delighted by the nervous quiver that shuddered through his muscular frame.  She pitched her voice lower – it was getting late and the pub traffic was picking up beyond the heavy curtains – so only John and Sherlock could hear her. Mary kept her recitation unhurried and languid to ensure that each point she was about to make was fully understood.

 

“You, my love, crawled back into our bed at dawn, lips swollen, tender, bruised from snogging; face and neck raw from beard stubble; finger-sized bruises pressed into your hips and arse.”

 

John opened his mouth apologize, and Mary tightened her hold on his earlobe for a moment before running her fingers through the short hair at his hairline; she was rewarded with a stronger tremor.

 

“Then there was the smell of sex … clinging to your skin like the lover who left it there.”  Mary sighed.  “I know what you smell like, John. I know what _we_ smell like.”  She took his hands – hanging open and limply in his lap – in hers and crouched before him.  “Now I know what _he_ smells like, too.”

 

John’s groan registered as either one of disgrace or arousal; Mary was guessing the former but would never rule out the latter.

“Breadcrumbs dyed neon green. Impossible to miss.  But John if I thought for one moment that you had deliberately left those clues for me to find as a substitution for you actually _telling_ me what had happened, I would not be here now.  I know that you wouldn’t do that to me. You’re a good man, John, if a bit bewildered right now.”

 

“You’re not angry,” Sherlock observed.   His brow furrowed in confusion and curiosity.  “You _should_ be angry.  Why?  Why are you not angry? ”  He looked to his friend for clarification.   “John, women get angry over this sort of … indiscretion, so why isn’t _she …”_ he pointed an accusatory finger _, “…_ angry.” 

 

“Oh, I’m angry alright,” Mary snapped, her eyes hard as she rose and leaned back against the table, “but not for the reason the two of you think.”

 

“Not the reason we think – Oh, _God_!“ John had been trying to ferret out the meaning implied in her words and groaned with misery when it finally sunk in.  He buried his hands in his face.  “I am _such_ a bloody wanker.”  He looked at Sherlock from between his fingers.  “ _We_ are such bloody wankers.”

 

“John?” Sherlock asked, shaking his head.  He didn’t understand, and Mary felt a pang of pity for him.  This whole part of the conversation was laden with the unspoken sentiment that typically existed between a couple who had known each other intimately for an extended period of time.  Though the detective might be familiar with the concept due to his relationship with John, the dynamic of John and Mary was clearly elusive.  He needed more data, so she provided it to him.

 

“You _know_ where I stand on issues of sex … of sexuality, John.  Of those we love and those we just want to shag.  You knew how I felt, and you ignored it … or worse, _forgot_ about it.” Mary dropped her head to John’s knees for a moment, breathing heavily, trying to collect herself.  When she looked back up at him, he saw that unshed tears had filled her blue eyes, but her voice was steady and strong.  “I knew what had happened the moment you slid in next to me, and I was so happy for you, John.  For _both_ of you.  I tried to tell you how I felt, how excited I was, but you had already shut down … shut me out.  You wouldn’t listen to anyt – ”

 

“I thought that I … that _we_ had betr –“

 

“No. You _didn’t_ think!  If you had done, if _either_ of you had done, there would have been a lot less pain all ‘round these last several days, and I wouldn’t be in the position to try to fix this bloody awful mess.  I don’t expect Sherlock to understand the situation; he’s ignorant of the conversations we’ve had in the past, but _you_ … you _assumed_ ,” she spat the final word as if it were bitter in her mouth. 

 

She poured herself another measure of scotch and tipped some into John’s glass as well.  Sherlock stood, took up the bottle, and emptied the vestiges into a glass for himself.  The three of them had finished off an entire bottle 21 year old Glenfiddich in just under two hours, but though her limbs were languid, Mary didn’t feel the least bit drunk; she doubted that John or Sherlock felt the effects either.  Typical.  One of the few times she _really_ needed to get pissed, and her body wouldn’t cooperate.

 

“John, you can’t sit there and tell me that the emotional Hell you and Sherlock have put yourselves through since you slept together would have happened if _I_ wasn’t in your life.”  Mary sipped her drink and watched the emotions play across John’s face from over the rim of her glass:  denial, frustration, consideration, reflection, and finally … acceptance. 

 

John pressed his face into his hands for a moment and rubbed at his eyes.  “No.  No, I won’t insult either of you by denying that,” John admitted.  “So, what happens next?”  He pulled his chair closer to Mary; Sherlock stood behind him, gripping one of the decorative finials of the chair back.

 

“That depends entirely upon on the two of you,” Mary said.  Her voice was stronger now, almost affectionate.  “You’re going to have to come to a decision.”

 

John jumped up from the chair and stalked around the small enclosure, running his hands through his hair in frustration.  “How can I do that? I love you, Mary.  I do.  I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I lo –“

 

“Never apologize, John.  I know how you feel about her.”  Sherlock slumped down in the chair John had vacated, and Mary picked up on the fatalism in his tone.  He thought he knew whom John would choose.

 

“I said _you’re_ going to have to make a decision, Sherlock.  John _and_ you.  The two of you, together.  Do you really think so poorly of me that you’d believe I’d demand he choose between us?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to hers.  “Why not?  It’s _typical_. Traditional.  Societal norms!  It’s … it’s _expected_ ,” he spat.

 

“ _Dull_ ,” Mary said and rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger.  She was so tired.  “ _Typical_ , Sherlock?  There is absolutely nothing typical or traditional about either you or John … or me for that matter, though many have argued to the contrary.”

 

John stopped his pacing in the corner.  “You have an idea, don’t you?”  His sharp nod of understanding denoted how well he knew this woman. “Right.  You always have, so let’s hear it.”

 

“I know that it’s probably trite and overly romantic to say this, but second chances like the one you’ve been given just don’t happen in real life,” Mary said.  “They’re the foolish fantasies of fiction and fairy tales, yet here the two of you are, alive, and whole, and clearly in love.  I would never stand in the way of that.”

 

 “How _selfless_ and noble,” sniped Sherlock with a roll of his eyes.

 

“Watch the tone, Sherlock,” Mary said with a voice that was as flinty as her eyes.  “I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and believe that you’re simply overwhelmed by the uncontained emotions in the room right now and don’t know how to respond appropriately.  I'm about to make the most selfish suggestion of my life, and if you can't appreciate that, you can either shut up or sod off!”

 

Sherlock chose the former. 

 

“The two of you belong with one another,” she continued, “… belong _to_ one another; always have done even though you couldn’t admit it.  What I’m so angry about is that you never gave me the chance to tell you how _I_ feel or what I think.  You automatically assumed – _both_ of you – that because John and I are together that I would be what kept you apart.  Do you have any idea how insulting that is?  I don’t care what’s typical, what’s traditional, or what society’s expectations are when it comes to love and relationships.  I _never_ have.”

 

“So what are you proposing?” asked John.

 

“That this doesn’t have to just be a ‘You and Me,’ or a ‘You and Sherlock’ winner-takes-all situation.  There could be an ‘us.’”  She gestured at the three of them as she slid into one of the vacant chairs. 

 

“Us?” John asked, his voice more than a bit bewildered.  “You mean the three of us … together.”

 

“Yes, John.”

 

“You’re suggesting a polyamorous relationship,” Sherlock said.

 

“Poly- _what_?”

 

“Oh come now, John.  Don’t be thick.  Even you are familiar with the meanings of basic roots:  poly, meaning ‘many;’ _amor_ , meaning ‘love’.”

 

“I know what it _means_ , Sherlock,” John snapped.  “I just never thought I’d ever hear it brought up as a potential solution to a romantic crisis in _my_ life.” He leaned heavily against the edge of the table and searched Mary’s eyes.  “Are you serious?”  Her head cocked again. “Right. Of course you’re serious.  I get it,” he said.  “Just point that eyebrow someplace else, would you?”

 

“Consensual, ethical, responsible …” Sherlock mused.  “I will admit there’s a certain … elegance to the idea of non-monogamy.” 

 

“The three of us …”

 

“Living together and loving together … or at least loving you, John,” Mary finished his thought.  Sherlock wasn’t the only one who understood John’s thinking.

 

“Then you’re not expecting to form an intimate relationship with me,” Sherlock asked. 

 

She turned in her chair to face him.  “Sherlock, whether you see it or not, you and I already have an intimate relationship.  I can’t claim to know you as well as John does, but I’d like to think we are somewhat close – “

 

“ – more so than I am customarily comfortable with …”

 

“ – and I hope it is evident that I care a great deal about your happiness –“

 

“ – What about sexuality?”  It was clear this was Sherlock’s principal concern.

 

She dropped her eyes and fiddled with the hem of her pale pink jumper, suddenly embarrassed.  She knew she should probably stay silent, but the nature of the relationship she was proposing could not be founded on half-truths or evasions.  “I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t … well, to be honest –“

 

“ – Oi!  _Really_?!” interrupted John.

 

Mary’s eyes jumped to his, and she tried to suppress the spurt of laughter that escaped her lips at the look of incredulity on John’s face, but she simply couldn’t. “What?  You think you’re the only one who sees the man behind the legend?  I find Sherlock funny, brilliant, far more feeling than he would ever lay claim to –“ she ignored Sherlock’s snort of derision – “He’s gorgeous, I could listen to him speak for hours, and – Yes, all right, I fancy him!  That shouldn’t be too hard a thing for _you_ to understand.” 

 

In spite of the look of surprise that lingered on John’s face, Mary now felt no regret about speaking honestly.  It’s not as though she was embarrassing Sherlock; the man loved to have his ego stroked, and she doubted much that it mattered to him whether the one doing the stroking was male or female, but … “That being said, I rather think that’s neither here nor there,” she turned her attention back to the detective, “as you’ve made it clear that you’re not overly enticed by women –“

 

“Only in so much as they’re predictably tedious and tiresome …” Sherlock sounded bored.

 

“Well, I do try not to be tiresome.”

 

“You couldn’t be tiresome if you tried.”  Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock at his own words as if he couldn’t believe that he’d actually said them aloud.  He had been slouching in the chair, swirling the last swallow of his scotch about in the glass, but he pushed himself up in the chair; his back now ramrod straight.  He looked from John to Mary and back to John who gave his younger lover a look that said, ‘ _Well, this is a turn up, isn’t it?_ ’ 

 

“Bloody scotch,” the detective muttered.  He stared at the glass as though it was the Serpent itself.  Swigging down the remains, he set the glass on table next to John and looped his scarf around his neck again, trying for all the world to seem indifferent to the situation he had created for himself.  Eventually, he turned his cool gaze to Mary’s much warmer one, but the man who was never a loss for words suddenly found himself struggling with them.  “You’re – that is, I find you – oh, sod it!” he growled, “– I find you … interesting.”

 

That was a far sight better than ‘tedious’, ‘tiresome’, ‘boring’, or ‘exasperating’.  In fact, coming from Sherlock Holmes, it was high praise.  Mary felt a blush of pleasure rise to her cheeks, and she smiled.  “I appreciate that, Sherlock. Thank you.”

 

“That doesn’t mean that I have any desire to engage in intercourse with you.”

 

“Oh,” her blush deepened.  “Umm … good to know.”

 

“I do, however, retain the right to reassess the situation should the need arise.”

 

God save her!  The man was worse than a teenaged girl, sometimes.

 

“Let’s just set all that on the back of the hob for the time being, shall we?”

 

The detective nodded his assent before demanding of John, “What do you find so amusing?”

 

The doctor was giggling.  He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and just giggled.  “Oh, nothing.  Nothing.  Just my life.”  Sherlock snorted his annoyance at the answer.  “So, you mentioned a decision,” John said to Mary when he finally calmed himself.

 

“Yes.”  Mary rose and reached around John to snag her red coat from her chair.  She pulled her knit scarf from inside the sleeve and looped its length about her neck as she explained.  “The two of you have to decide if the three of us is a lifestyle you can undertake.  I have no more experience with this than you, but I know it won’t be easy, especially not at first.  It’s all about trust, consent, and communication.  No lying, no half-truths – ever.   While I don’t think trust and consent will be an issue –“

 

“— Open communication hasn’t always been my –

 

“—Our, Sherlock, _our_ ,” amended John.

 

“— _our_ strongest attribute,” Sherlock admitted.  He drummed his fingers against the hard wood of the chair’s armrest.  He frequently tapped out concertos and violin solos when he was thinking.  John had explained to her early on how he could get a sense of Sherlock’s thoughts based on the metre of the fingerings.  Mary recognised a compound triple metre of 9/8 ths time.  Rare for him.  Sherlock was troubled.

 

“Each of us is a challenge to live with on our own,” Mary continued, slipping on her coat and blue gloves, “so the three of us in a relationship could be either a complete disaster or the most beautiful, fulfilling experience of our lives.”

 

“What do you want, love?” John asked.  He cupped the side of her face in his large hand and rubbed his thumb affectionately across the bottom of her lip.

 

She leaned into his touch, savouring it, knowing full well that it might be the last time she felt the press of his skin to hers.  “To be happy … all of us, but what that ultimately looks like will depend on the decision the two of you make tonight.”

 

“Tonight?”  John pulled back, surprised.  “So quickly?”

 

“No point in drawing it out,” Sherlock said.  He stood and rested his hand on his lover’s shoulder.  “Four days has been agonizing enough.”

 

“I’m going to go,” Mary said to John.  “Give you two the chance to talk alone.”  She pulled her iPhone from her coat pocket.  “It’s half six, now.  W - would you consider giving me your decision by ten?”

 

“We will.”  Sherlock answered for them both, John at a loss for words.  That the doctor had reached another major turning point in his life was clear on his face, and Mary ached to reassure him, but she couldn’t.  John and Sherlock had to make this choice on their own, without any additional influence from her.

 

“If you agree to this, you’ll be able to deduce where to find me to give me your answer.  I'd rather you didn't just call.”  Mary pressed a kiss to the side of John’s mouth, breathing deeply of his calming scent before turning to Sherlock.  She smiled at him and risked a quick, affectionate tug on the end of his scarf.  Pulling open the curtains of the snug, she stepped out into the pub proper.

 

“And if we decide to the contrary?” Sherlock asked.  John tensed at the grave tone in Sherlock’s voice, and the detective slid his hand down the doctor’s arm, twining their fingers together, and squeezed.

 

Mary looked at both John and Sherlock for a long moment.  Her smile was fond yet sad; the answer to Sherlock’s question was fixed in her eyes.

 

She left the pub without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always so very welcome. If you like this tale, or would like to offer constructive criticism, feel free to leave me an early Christmas present. I promise that I was good this year. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are the food of the gods where writers are concerned. Please, feed this bear!
> 
> Seriously, though, I'd love to know what you think as there's not too much fandom written about this particular trio of lovers.


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